efflorescence
by sakiena
Summary: they would never bloom, never grow, because she was the dead flower and he was the flame that burned her up
1. don't

_cola with the burnt-out taste_

_i'm the one you tell your fears to_

_there'll never be enough of us_

_i live in a hologram with you_

* * *

If he was capable of dreaming, he would dream of her, flowers entangled in her hair and peace everywhere. He would dream of her honey eyes closed and watch her bloom into the moon and stars, but she would be brighter. Her luminescence was the image of true beauty.

Her presence burned his seemingly everlasting darkness into ashes and shivers of the past. If he could dream, he would believe it and find her hand in his sleep, feel her warmth, her kindness.

His violet, his very own violet.

She was everything, his world, his afterlife.

Her love had sent sparks throughout his body, never tainting. Her laughter would caress his skin and the layer of pain etched onto his being would melt, disappear, and be replaced by content, serenity, happiness.

She radiated like the sun when she smiled. Those moments were worth more than gold. She was precious, a valuable treasure that must be savoured for the fear of losing her.

But, of course, he was distraught.

Instead of her adoring touch, instead of the pleasant acid filling him, licking his insides, comforting him, instead of his hope's revivial, he slumped, deader than he already was.

There was an ache where joy used to flourish, used to fly.

That joy, it used to make him smile.

Even though it stopped him in his tracks, made his knees weak, made his cheeks hurt from a dimpled smile, he loved it. He never wanted to let it go.

And he remembered the crimes he committed, the atrocities he planned, the pain he caused. He was aware of his manipulative state of mind and all of his deceptions.

He also remembers the heat of her lips, crashing against his, a need for any type of intimacy so that she could stop hurting for just a little bit.

But even though he could still faintly feel the crackling passion on his mouth, he doubted he would experience her kiss again, travel her porcelain skin and bones and see her, drink in her soul and make her smile.

He was forgotten.

The first time he heard her voice, smelled her sweetness, saw her face, he claimed her as his very own goddess, in love with every inch of her.

God, she was so fucking special.

He wished he was special.

He wished he hadn't done those things, wished he wasn't the reason of those horror shows. The least he could do was take responsibility, acknowledge his inner monster.

Honestly, it was such a shame his insanity divided him from whatever humanity he had left.

He was the Devil's angel, never guilty, and remained unforgiven.

He used to not care.

But now, he was full of regret, jealously, and he's sorry, he's sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, so fucking sorry...

Her strength, her strength, her purity and strength was what he desired, what he craved.

She drew him in with her dimming lights and cigarettes, her loose blood and broken wings.

The curves of her shattered faith was a magnet. He found himself in her, found what he should have been. He had been so weak, pouring emptiness into his own heart and drinking fire to try to feel something other than the head-splitting numbness that lingered in his breath.

Like him, she printed tragic poetry into her skin with blades and her own emotional agony. In the back of his mind, he wanted death to reach her, take her in its tranquility.

He wanted to hold her until her ripped skin mended, until she was no longer a hazard to herself.

She was radioactive, a nuclear flame. She was ferocity, she was hurting. But she was perfection.

She was fearless, even in her isolation. Man, he couldn't take how _perfect_ she was, how she literally had no flaws. He wanted her bad, so very fucking bad, and nothing could replace it. Actually, he _needed _her, needed her affection and forgiveness.

Oh, God, he hurt her so bad.

He was banished from her loving and locked into a prison of remorse. He couldn't shake this off, he couldn't ever. And thinking back, he realized how dumb he was, lying through his teeth, never feeling guilty. If only he had known what the future held. If only he wasn't so ignorant to the fact that his faults would be revealed, undone from its wrapping of false words, his flower, his beautiful, beautiful flower would still mark love onto his collar bone.

If only she would touch him again.

But after her anger, all directed towards _him_, he was so vulnerable, so exposed.

He found shelter in her.

But that shattered.

He was lying on her bed, their bed, when she walked in. He heard her mother's pain as she birthed a demon's spawn, ripping her apart and creating another victim of the house.

"My mom is dead."

The lack of emotion in her voice worried him. It lifted him from his daze as he sat up, taking in her blank face.

"I'm so sorry. I know you were close."

She remained the same, staring at him, like he was to blame. A tiny jolt of fear shot through him, deep enough to touch his bones.

"Yeah, we were."

She crossed her arms protectively, closing herself up and shunning vulnerability.

"My dad's down there all alone now."

He awkwardly shifted himself off the bed, standing on his own two feet and looked at his sunshine, feeling her coldness.

"That makes me sad. I like your dad. He was nice to me."

"He's nice to all his patients. Even the ones who lie to him."

Disbelief ran into his system. How could she accuse him? She knew he loved her. She knew, she knew.

"What?"

"Why did you start seeing him in the first place? Constance thought you needed help."

He did, he does, he _knows_ he does. He was motivated to be a good person, all for her, for her, for her, for her.

"I did. I do."

"You knew you were dead."

His voice is quiet. "Yeah."

And now he barely whispers.

"I knew."

"Do you know why?"

"The cops shot me. Right here in this room."

In his head, he recalled the event, remembered the bullets that broke into his flesh. The smell of smoke and sweat and blood was always right under his nose.

"Why? Why did they shoot you?"

No, don't ask him that. He can't lose her. He's scared.

"I don't know." Lies.

Her features were ruthless and piercing in its own way. "You murdered people, Tate. Kids. Like us."

As he stared into her darkened eyes, he found disgust and accusation. Tears began to form in his own. He was scared. Fucking scared.

"The kids that came to us on Halloween."

He knew who they were. He knew.

He began to cry, adding bullshit on his tongue to go along with it, knowing the worst was to come but praying to a God he didn't believe in to let him keep her, to have her still love him.

"Why would I do that?"

She raised her eyebrows. She knew he knew what he had done.

His voice began to break.

"Why would I do that?"

Sobbing.

His vision was blurred by his sadness. She failed to eliminate her monotone expression. She saw right through him, with her very own angered eyes.

He shifted his stance, rocking with his emotion.

"No... why would I do that?" He spoke just a little louder, hoping to evoke something, anything.

She doesn't believe him. She forgot how to.

"I don't know."

His sniffles and whimpers faded as she spoke again, his face one with disbelief and... and fear. She knows, she knows, she_ fucking _knows. She raises her eyebrows, almost mocking him.

"Why'd you kill those guys who lived here before us?"

Finally, finally, her orbs began to water, cracking the glass that was her shield. She covers it with a scoff as his mouth moves from it's twisted, frightful position to one of shock.

She speaks.

"Why would you rape my mother?"

She is powerful.

Sobs choke his throat before they emanate from him, his face scrunching up and then looking down at his feet, ashamed. A teenaged monster. But he needed her.

He almost instantly gathers up the courage to look up, finding her pain all over again. All his fault. All his _fucking_ fault.

"I'm sorry." She's internally laughing at his bullshit.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, catching the way her arms grip her sides a little tighter, how her eyes see a liar. But he means it. "I was different then." His confession apparently rang true, at least to him. He had spoken up when he said it, taking the power his flower left on the floor and swept it up for him to admire and practice in the moment.

Maybe he was trying to convince her.

Maybe he was trying to convince himself.

His argument was belittled by her scornful response of another raise of her brows. The corner of her lips turned up, amused at his attempt.

"I used to think you were like me. You were attracted to the darkness."

She hesitates, slightly, as if to be sure he was listening, all attention on her.

"But, Tate, you are the darkness."

Pain ignited his body and was accompanied by hot tears leaking from his eyes. He had to let her know. He had to let her know how golden she was, how she was his flame in a dark cave.

"No. Before you, that's all there was."

His breath was heavy, like he couldn't get enough air as he stared into the cracked hazel of her iris, seeking sensibility, solace, pretty much anything. Anything is good. His girl, his very own, gorgeous girl, was sand through his hands at the moment and he needed to know the near future so he could escape from this oblivion.

"You're the only light I've ever known."

He gulps uneasily, nervously.

"You _changed_ me, Violet."

She's closer now, her angelic thumb brushing his cheek. He has her.

She's here, she's his.

He smiles sweetly, the previous panic bubbling down and diminishing as her pretty voice fills his head. "I believe that."

His dimples are visible now.

"I love you, Tate."

A whimper, a strangled, haunting noise leaves his neck. He looks at her adoringly, anticipating but also dreading her next words. She loves him. Of course she'll stay. Love finds forgiveness. For always.

She is angry this time.

"But I can't forgive you."

Her fingers don't rest on his face anymore.

He is horrified.

"You have to _pay _for what you did. All the pain. All the sorrow. You murdered my mother!"

"No!"

"You _did_!"

He doesn't try to fight the truth. Fresh water cuts his skin. She's just angry, angry, angry because of him, him, him. His fault. His fault. All of his fault.

"That baby, whatever it was, it killed her."

She pauses and it feels like a forever of agony.

"I can't be with you."

His world falls apart. Crumbles.

"I _won't _be with you."

Her petite form steps backwards. He follows. There is only one thing he can muster up.

"What are you saying?"

Terrified.

"I'm saying go away."

His breath, is rapid, desperate, reaching for his prayers to crawl into a miracle.

Just...nO. No. no. NO.

DON'T. that HurT. stop. STOP. NO.

"No, no don't do this."

No, doN't let me GO. dON't Let this go, i love U. just like UTUBE. Remember, VIOLET? no. NO. You're my flower. my LIGHT My LIFE. no. no. no. no. NO.

"Go away, Tate."

stoP It. stop It. STOP it. Don't do this to ME. I LOVE you I LOVE YOU. i NEed you. beautiful, BeautiFUL flower. Stay with me. All I have. all I WANT. all i have.

"You're all I want."

please

"You're all I HAVE!"

don't mean it

"Go away!"

please

"Go away!"

don't break me

like the hot guns

and

the voices

in

my

head.


	2. leave

_you choke my throat_

_with words of wonder_

_you make it hard to breathe_

_i knew you were no angel_

_but, god, what did i do?_

_do you remember what i said, that first time we met?_

_stay away_

_why couldn't you_

_stay away?_

* * *

Most of the time, she couldn't get the stink of love out of her bed, couldn't get it out of her head, and remained hypnotized by the fiction of her reality. They used to be close, closer than this. She was too hung up on the blindness of her being. She saw him, finally saw him. She's not sure if she truly loves him or not.

She let the ivy poison their chapters of yellow, let it intoxicate their warming hearts. Her grip was loose on her beliefs. She couldn't find her way out of the maze of her thoughts, couldn't quit her addiction to the ache. He was the saviour, the gladiator. She was the damsel in distress. But now, she was walking on hands and knees, confidence overflowing and falling to the dirt-covered ground.

She left her heart on the floor because she wanted it to die. She popped the pills instead of pretty questions because she was overwhelmed. She can't look at him because she can't forgive him. She can't forgive him because she wants him to go away. She wants him to go away because she hates him. She hates him because she loves him.

Because she cannot see the sun rise without frustration, because she cannot breathe fatal smoke without it killing her, because she does not care what he did anymore, because she is too stubborn is why she hates him.

He stabbed electricity into her veins with just a look. She was weak against his gorgeous darkness. Defenseless. She would never forget the way her name lived up to its beauty when he sighed it into her mouth and marked meaning into her brain.

The stems curled around them, creating the perfect poetry and failing to shame their insistence on floral loving. And their chemistry was outstanding, sparking a strange passion the color of crimson. His touches were almost overwhelming, but it killed her thoughts with kisses.

His mouth on hers always gave her a fever, mercilessly filling her with fire and tinging her skin with freckles. The sensation always made her heart explode with illustrations and illusions, kindling her spirit with the symbol of lust. His complexity filled her with zealous emotion. He infused her with his taste every time he licked into her mouth just to tell her she ruled him, his mind, his whole body. He told her that he doesn't know the last time he was this happy. That he doesn't know if he will function without seeing her, hearing her, feeling her. Doesn't know if he could go a day without kissing her. So he proceeded to attach his mouth to hers, moving hungrily and bruising her skin with a deep blaze.

But because the hands that were almost too delicate across her body contained a past of murder, she refused to cast her eyes upon his own. Even though forgiveness was the route to the house's security, she refused, forming her own kingdom to protect herself from the handsome demon she was a little too fond of.

But, of course, she broke just about every rule. Rebellion, even against herself, flowed in her dead blood. Successful defiance did not always equal to glory.

She always sat and stared at words or unchanging summer days in her room, wishing she was alive and breathing in the smell of sunshine. She knew she took her life for granted, but back then, she was too miserable to care. She never knew that all she truly wanted was to start living.

Her room was always a place she could call a haven. It welcomed her tenderly and she would always oblige, stripping down until her soul was vulnerable to the air.

Soft knocks reached her ears. She didn't have to ask who in the world - well, house - decided to interrupt her eternity. "Come in," she allowed. Her mother's kind, sky blue eyes and strawberry blonde curls peeped through a crack in the door that locked her away from the sin that watched her. A loving smile graced the red head's complexion as she entered her daughter's harmonic, teenaged safe. "Hey, honey. You feeling alright? Want to join me for some tea?" the older woman offered gently. The adolescent girl simply glanced her way, forcing a half-hearted smile onto her face. "I'm fine," she responded, answering to both questions. The small war inside her head intensified; shouldn't she go spend some time with the reason she had a chance to live? But what if she sees him? What if she sees the reason she's dead? Because in this Hell on Earth, there was only matters of life or death. It was one or the other, and the illuminated lie lost its crown to the dreadful truth.

"Violet, you have to forgive him sometime. I know I have. There's no point in holding a grudge if we're going to be stuck here together." She smoothed down the dark blonde hair of her child with a troubled mind. "You forgive and you forget." The anger from before crawled back. Seething rage quickly boiled inside of her and twisted her speech through gritted teeth. "You're _dead_ because of him, mom! You could've been happy! Everyone was pulling you apart when you deserved to be happy!" she growled, the inhuman frustration ripping the back of her throat. Her mother was the pure one. The innocent child nearly driven to insanity by a disordered, cheating husband and an idle teen for a daughter. She could've gotten out. She could've been happy. But the monster that took her heart ruined the one thing that was meant to give hope.

Hope.

It was all lost in the mist and darkness.

They were forced to be confined to this fucking house that drained their morals and chances. It took their damned physical existence and threw it in the trash, but left their damaged souls to linger and hurt until time decided to stop. There was no way out, no way out, no _fucking_ way out. They were all so hollow and numb and limp and they were the living dead, the living dead who never really want to understand that they would never get past the gates of this nightmare. The gore of their minds had become classified as typical. The gravitational pull this Underworld has on the ghosts always made her feel weak. She was weak. She was scared and she will never stop being scared because she was just a child and children cannot care for themselves and children cannot handle responsibility and pain. She was just weak. She was weak and she wants to carry on to stop this forever but she can't. She can't pass over to whatever place she was supposed to go to and she can't go back to the life she hated. Either way was better than this, either one was better than being a bird rotting too slowly in this cage that closed in on her constantly.

She fucking hated this dumb ass horror movie shit.

It. Was. Bull. Shit.

"You're stuck here because of that god damn fucking monster," the formerly suicidal girl whispered and spat, looking into the calm but broken eyes of her mother. "He raped you. And his spawn tore you apart. I'm never going to forgive that scum. You had enough shit from me and dad. This was too much. I wish you got away, mom." Her voice had cracked, tears threatening to show off how weak she really was. _Fuck_, she was weak. Her mother was the strong one, the true fighter. She should've left. She wants her to leave. She wants her mother to leave and be safe and happy and get all she ever wanted and just have everything that she was working so, so hard for.

There's a soothing hand on her knee when she depletes her repetition of happiness and makes a decision. A beautiful decision that she will never regret. She'll do some good for once.

"Mom."

"Violet."

"Go away, and never come back."

It was better to burn out than to fade away. She burned her out. But she could hear her voice ringing in her head.

"Violet, nothing can really go away."

She cries.


	3. me

_now i can't think of air without thinking of you_

_i doubt that comes as a surprise_

_i can't find anything to dream about_

_i can't find anywhere to hide_

* * *

It was getting old.

Waiting.

The first commitment he has ever decided to take in and keep wasn't something he would break. But, honestly, sometimes his patience just waned and spread into black stars, hastily dying into the sadness.

Even though he was a ghost, he was still tired. He wish he could insert coins just to keep himself running 'til the end of time. The postponing of his eternal summertime loving was a nuisance. He needed a release. He needed to cross out her hate, perform a helter skelter to her mind.

He is hers, and she knows. He wants to hear her say that she is his. He wants her to want to be his.

When longing got the best of him, he forgets his impurities. His faults are dead in his head and the voices are stronger than his poetic, ice cold heart, freezing the remnant of his conscience and wiring his whole self to listen to his dynamic impulse.

But no matter how much he wanted to fuck the lights out of her, no matter how bad he wanted to yank her arm and get her to look him in the eye, no matter how desperately he needed her forgiveness, he tries to remember it all. There were too many times that he nearly let himself go.

Nearly let himself cause any type of pain for personal pleasure.

It made him nostalgic and restless, made him desire any type of cure - preferably her - to sink into him and flow in his bloodstream. It was almost impossible to harness his lust. And he was trying. But he was so frustrated. So fucking frustrated and she wasn't there to hold his hand and give him nice scenarios to play over and over and over inside his mind, which she decorated in understanding and care and safety.

The sanctuary was buzzing static and scratching defeat, praying for either a demolish or reassemble to release itself.

So when he can't take it, he imagines his overtly cynical and beautiful girl in his make-believe land, where she is sometimes too busy being make-believe. But in this world, there was never any contention. There was heavenly bodies and celestial gleams, her love being the brightest of them all.

They were no dalliance. They were just delayed. Temporarily idle.

He was willing to crack the situation.

Ready.

Because the absence cut his tolerance and made him jaded.

He wanted her stars and skeletons, scars and elegance.

So he taught himself to daydream.

Everyone was defined by their worn-out sheets and the static on their TV's. They could not fathom the idiocy of their peers and their judgement. All because they liked the rain a little too much and held each other a little too tight.

They conflated because of the envy that floated around them and the lagoons of their inner selves.

They were lively. Luxuriant.

Absolutely perfect.

Even though he was the umbra and she was the cinnamon, they were the epitome of clarity. They were celestial. They were everyone's favorite Nirvana song. They were the darkest kind of radiance.

Most of all, they were efflorescent.

So if anyone were to hear of the way that they first graced each other's vision, they would not be surprised. He accumulated a plan once his eyes took in her delicate form, slashing special deaths atop her wrists that would best be kept secret.

He was honestly surprised the spooky little girl had not noticed the door opening, revealing her to anyone who had decided to roam. Not only that, he couldn't help but feel a bit offended. He wanted her to look up at him, spark something inside of him, start a new game.

So, being the asshole that he absolutely could be, he said sort of arrogantly, "You're doing it wrong. If you're trying to kill yourself, cut vertically. They can't stitch that up."

At the sound of his overtly calm voice, she spins around, facing him, fucking looking at him. Pride poured into him at her wide honey eyes that held relief, but mainly fear, the one thing that he hoped to evoke.

"Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?" she growled lowly, strongly. She made sure to steel her expression and drop the porcelain fright.

"Well... since you asked," he began with a smirk, "I'm Tate." He stretched his arm, holding out his hand for her to take and received the expected rejection with her fatal stare. He puffed his bottom lip out in fake disappointment, but her expression remained the same. "Aw. I was just trying to be polite!"

He could practically feel the girl's body tense with anger. He should get out. But he shouldn't.

"May I get the honor of knowing your name? I gave you mine. It's only fair." He dared to take a step inside, enjoying this more than he should. What was wrong with a little fun?

"Screw you, insane asshole. You have no right being here," she finally barked, nearly stomping until she was right in his fucking face. "Get out. Right now."

This, he liked. Her audacity. The gleam of rage, both steadying and shaking her dainty self. Stronger than she looked. He dipped his head down so that the tips of their noses touched. "I'll show myself out," he pretty much whispered. He liked being a mystery, he liked fucking with people's minds. But this one was different. He liked it. A lot.

As he turned himself around, heading for the door that will close him off from the girl with the cut skin, he decided to leave her with a reminder. "Oh, and if you're trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking the door." With that, he shut the divider, smiling devilishly at his first (and definitely not the last) encounter with the brave girl.

That night, he dreamt of her.

That morning, he smiled.

And maybe that day, school did not seem as shitty because she was in view, sucking on a cigarette that everyone would think that one or two drags would kill her but he saw her strength and he saw her fire. And even though it was two trillion degrees outside, she wore an oversized cardigan over a dress that reached just below her knees with tights and boots and he truthfully thought that if he died by her side it would be such a fucking heavenly way to die. And even though she had coke whores and bitches yelling at her, she laughed and spit in their faces and laughed some more and he never wanted to know someone so bad in his life.

He actually did want to know her name, actually.

The next time they speak to each other, they are in her attic. She's poking at her scars, pulling and rubbing the raw damage. Trying to feel. This time, when he enters the dank and hidden room, she instantly whips around, tugging the sleeve of her sweater over the palm of her hand. The emotions from yesterday flashed in her eyes, although she let them go a bit easier.

It did not make the bite of her words any less harsher.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Tate?"

In that moment, he never wanted to hear her say anything expect his name, over and over and over and over and over. But he would not let that show. She will not win.

"I don't know. I'm just an insane asshole," he retorted with the corner of his lips pulled up as he sat on the floor, legs crossed, in front of her.

She scoffs prettily. "Get the fuck out or I'll make you. Or, even worse, I'll have you receive psychiatric therapy from my father." His response is a laugh that he knows is charming. Also, he found her comeback adorably childish. "Look at daddy's little girl. Maybe you need him more than I do," he says with a nod at her arm.

"Shut the fuck up, dickweed," she snaps back, crossing her arms around her frame. He couldn't help but throw a fit of giggles and chuckles and everything in between. He also managed to snort, and he became glad that he met the girl because he hasn't laughed in a long time. He opens his eyes to see her biting the insides of her cheeks, trying to resist the contagious joy.

"I'm totally going to use that. Just throw it around at the fuck face's at Hell and shit," he marveled as his laughter dies down.

"So get out, or you won't be able to even spit a syllable through your teeth," she threatened.

"You know, I really like you. You're strong."

She raises a brow and smiles mockingly. She's unpredictable. And he likes her.

"So you want me to drag you out?"

"I'll get out. Just wait a second."

Then he's licking his mouth and then his mouth is on top of her mouth and there is a blaze settling inside of them. Their kiss is hot and it's deep and he's on top of her with his hands on her thighs and her legs are around his waist and then it's over way too soon. "See you at school, dickweed." He fucking winks at her.

As he stands up, she grabs his wrist and yanks him down with strength that neither of them knew that she had, but he was not shocked. She could be, was strong, inside and out. "You're not leaving like that. You're not getting the last word again," she demanded.

"So what are you going to end this with?" he asked stupidly.

"Violet." She holds out her hand. He takes it firmly and shakes with vigor.

"I'll have you know that you're just as pretty as the flower, Violet," he confesses rather shyly. He mentally punched himself at acting on that impulse. He probably sounded pretty fucking stupid.

"Fuck you," she deadpanned.

And then the fantasy goes too fast and then they're together, kissing, fucking, touching, doing everything he wanted to do with her and everyone is getting twisted and

and he begins to lose or gain a memory and he

feels the queen of his dreams disappear in all of his dreams and he doesn't know why he thought of all of this and why it would help and suddenly he cannot breathe

the dead air and he is dead and she is dead and he could not understand

how he collected his thoughts before

and why they decided to crumble

when he needed them most and all he wanted was to listen to music and play scrabble with her but all the same he wanted to shove her and kill her all over but then kiss her until she learns how to forgive all the pain and all the sorrow

and he remembers just about

every single word that she's said

but he cannot remember why sometimes

he thinks in poems

and he wants her to forget and he wants to have dominance and power and control over her

and he thinks she gave him a heart but then again

she took it from him

because he is a bee and she is a flower and she is taking all of his pollen

so that she could grow and he is giving and she is getting

but he knows that he killed her and even more

it takes strength to be gentle and kind and that is what she is she is the epitome of strength and everything that is good because she is light and she is dark and they are attracted to one another and she should be with him but she is not

and

he cannot help

but crumble

completely

when

she

cries

and

she

is also a murderer

because

she took

his afterlife

over

with

thoughts

of

her


End file.
